


Nessun Dorma

by Chimerari



Category: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy (2011)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Assassins & Hitmen, M/M, Mentor/Sidekick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-10
Updated: 2011-12-10
Packaged: 2017-10-27 03:42:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/291250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chimerari/pseuds/Chimerari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are consequences, to breaking the heart of a murdering bastard</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nessun Dorma

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the ttss_kink prompt: 'Bill is Bill. Jim is Beatrix/"The Bride". The Circus is the Deadly Viper Assassination Squad, embroiled in fierce competition with a rival Soviet firm of contract killers.There may or may not be mpreg involved.Make it work.'
> 
> Not a crossover, more like borrowing the plot bunny for TTSS. Don't worry if you haven't watched Kill Bill (altho, WHY THE HELL NOT?!)

 

 

_Hush, my sweet, those tornados are for you._

 

 

 

‘He’s coming,’ Peter murmurs, seemingly to himself. The words almost drowned out by the sound of rain.

‘Who is?’ A voice drifts out of nowhere, although the speaker remains unseen.

‘Black mamba.’

A figure steps forward then. His boyish face curiously blank.

‘Never heard of him.’ A pause. ‘Or her.’

‘No, I don’t suppose you have.’ Peter exhales. ‘It’s been years.’

‘He’s not here to say hi, is he?’

‘Hardly.’ Peter smiles. ‘Last time we met, I shot him a couple of times, in the stomach.’

‘I’m bored.’ The younger man grins, sharp-edged and glinting. ‘Let him come.’

Peter snorts. ‘You have no idea who you’ll be up against this time.’

‘Someone out for your blood, by the sound of it.’

‘And when did I give you the impression that I needed rescuing?’

Lanky as Peter is, no one could doubt his competence. Not after what happened to Alleline. Alleline, the bigmouthed fool, had the audacity to bring up Peter’s heritage in front of the council, calling him a half-breed, among other choice words.

The crowd was in such a state of uproar nobody saw when Peter leaped over the table, or how he appeared in front of Alleline. What they all saw, was Peter’s hands: those long, fine-boned fingers closing around Alleline’s neck, and snapped it. Easy as you please.

The celebration was inevitably ruined. Peter has been enjoying the silence that followed ever since.

Peter lifts a finger, touching the tip of it to Ricki’s cheek, voice soft as smoke. ‘Or have you forgotten that everything you know, you learnt it from me?’

Ricki blinks, dropping his gaze. ‘My apologies, My Guillam.’

For a moment it’s as if Peter hasn’t heard him. Then he’s leaning closer, so close that his lips almost brush the other man’s earlobe when he speaks.

‘Really, Ricki. You transport me out of all proper thoughts when you call me that.’

Ricki doesn’t reply. There is no outward reaction at all except a minute stutter in his breathing.

Peter beams, sliding the hand up into Ricki’s hair.

 

 

The news of Smiley’s demise came three weeks ago: a kitchen knife straight through the heart, dead before he hit the floor. Ann, on the other hand, escaped without so much as a scratch. But then Peter expected nothing less. Jim has always been the one frowning down on the rest of the Squad. Oh, he killed just as often, but never more than necessary, and never out of personal enjoyment.

If there ever was a righteous assassin, it was Jim. Bill used to tease him all the time about it. Nicknamed him the Merciful Death, which was about a hundred times more fitting than Black Mamba.

Three weeks is more than enough for Jim to get here. In fact, Peter is surprised that he hasn’t showed up yet. Probably lurking in the shadows somewhere----good at waiting, that one. 

Even better at getting his revenge.

 

 

Peter is sitting in front of the piano, running over a Fugue. A Fugue that’s clearly just waiting to be put out of its misery.

‘You seem troubled, Mr Guillam.’

‘I’m more fascinated, to be honest.’ Peter leans back, resting his head against Ricki’s torso. ‘How many people do you know has survived half a dozen gunshots?’

‘Must have been real lucky then.’

  ‘Luck has nothing to do with it.’ He starts a scale, abandons it half-way through and bangs out a few staccato chords. ‘No one lives once Bill wants them dead. Not one.’

Peter stands, easing the lid down. He’s all the way across the room when he stops, glancing back.

‘You know what I like best about you, Ricki?’

A silent shake of the head.

‘You never ask for explanations. Someone once told me that curiosity is the quickest way to get you killed, remember that.’

 

 

Tiny Toby was the second to go.

Drowned.

In his own bathtub. No sign of struggle. Accidental, the police concluded.

They always did say Black Mamba was the best, Peter muses.

Smiley was no doubt the easiest to locate, the family man. All you needed to do was to track down his wife. Toby, well, he and Jim never saw eye to eye. From an aesthetic point of view, mind you. Toby had a certain showiness---from his wardrobe to his method: usually preferring poison to what he called brutal strength.

 Jim distasted the pretentiousness of it.

Or so he claimed. Peter’s always thought their animosity towards each other stemmed from something deeper than that. Territorial maybe.

But what does he know? He remembers Jim used to look at Bill like he’s hung the moon and the stars (but then, they all did, to a certain extent). Apparently, dying is the one thing he wouldn’t do, not even for Bill.

Perhaps, especially not for Bill.

 

 

Ricki is zipping up when the bathroom door opens with a squeak. He doesn’t acknowledge the intruder, just strolls towards the basin and turns on the tap. When he glances up, the man (square jawed, nose like a hawk) is watching him in the mirror.

Definitely not from around here then. Nobody looks at Ricki Tarr in the eyes if they can help it. Not unless they want to have their guts pulled out of their navel.

When Peter is feeling kind, he calls Ricki impulsive.

Ricki dries his hands on a towel, humming as he returns the stranger’s gaze. The setup is all too familiar: widen your gait, lean back, put the merchandise on show.

‘Come here often?’

The other man frowns. ‘No offence but, you’re not really my type.’

‘I’m everyone’s type.’ Ricki sidles up to him, fingers already curling around the blade tucked up in his sleeve. His eyes narrow into slits when the man catches his wrist, and something distinctly sharp is digging into his ribs.

‘Now, we can talk.’

Up close Ricki can see the sickly hue to his skin, something that is at odds to the strength of his grip. ‘Where is Peter Guillam?’

Ricki tilts his head to the side, whistles. ‘So, you’re Black Mamba.’

‘I don’t have time for small talk.’

‘Neither do I.’ Ricki kicks out before he finishes the sentence. Jim sidesteps, narrowly misses losing a kneecap. He swings his shiv around just in time to block a blow from Ricki’s curved blade. The clunk of metal on metal grating in the small space.

‘Well, Mr Guillam is a busy man.’ Ricki shrugs, his normally impassive face alight with glee. ‘Guess you’ll just have to go through me first.’

 

 

The party is going well, as well as it can be given that Peter has never been keen on parties; just another opportunity for people to line up and kiss his ass.

The white tiger cub is impressive though, he has to admit. Even Ricki looks charmed when it’s presented to the head-table in a cage, all sleepy and stumbly with jetlag. 

Speaking of whom, what on earth is keeping him? Peter frowns inwardly.

He spots Jim then---standing about a foot taller than everyone else in the room. His grim face hovering above the sea of saccharine smiles.

Peter stands---excusing himself---and follows the disappearing back of Jim Prideaux out.

They end up in the private garden at the rear end of the bar. For a few moments the only noise is the gurgle of a small stream, winding its way through the open space. The moon high up in the sky white as bone.

‘Where is Bill?’ Jim breaks the silence first.

‘I don’t know,’ Peter replies good-naturedly. ‘Besides, I can’t tell you even if I do.’

There is a sound like tearing silk: a blade is drawn, its curved edge trained on Peter. Jim carries on without missing a beat. ‘Yes, that’s more or less what your protégée said.’

Peter bites down on the inside of his cheek to keep his expression neutral. Without taking his eyes off Jim, his trusted weapon slips into his palm. At first glance it appears to be identical to the one Jim is holding---very few people have had the chance to realize that they are in fact, mirror images.

Jim’s gaze follows the shape of the blade. ‘Just answer the question, and we can both walk away from this.’

‘You want revenge, don’t you?’ Peter takes a casual step to the right, a move that’s promptly echoed by Jim. ‘We were as responsible as him.’

‘I’d rather take the matters up with the puppet master.’ Jim lets out a humourless laugh.

They’ve fallen completely still, eyes locked, looking for any sign that the other is going to strike first. Then in a flurry of movement, Peter fakes a left, causing Jim to bring an arm up to block the attack, and swinging his own blade down in answer.

The first tic of blood hitting stone draws out a grin from both men.

 

 

That night Bill called all three of them in. Offering no apology even though it was well past midnight, which should have been the first sign to tip them off---Bill, despite everything, had always been unfailingly polite. Instead he ordered them to show up, armed. His tone clipped and tinny over the phone.

If anyone was puzzled, they hid it well upon arrival. Bill was sitting in an armchair, resting his chin on top of interlocked fingers. He was immaculately dressed for the hour, although it looked like he hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep for some time.

‘Black mamba is flying back from Budapest as we speak.’ Bill announced without glancing up, his gaze floating somewhere above their ankles. ‘I expect him to be here in an hour.’

A lengthy pause. Peter was inclined to believe that Bill had fallen asleep mid-sentence.

‘We’re taking him out.’

The shock zinged through the room like a shrill.

‘Any questions?’

Bland was the one to speak up. ‘Are you prepared to answer them?’

Bill considered it for a moment. ‘No.’

That was the end of the conversation.

They waited in the dark, breathing quickly falling into sync with each other. An onlooker would have mistaken them for a bunch of grotesques, hunched over and lifeless. The white of someone’s eyes occasionally flashed when they blinked.

Time came to a standstill, the syrupy heaviness of anticipation stifling. Until finally, there was a key turning in the lock, a raspy voice softly calling out Bill’s name.

What followed was almost anti-climactic: rapid gunshots muffled by silencers, and the heavy thump of a body hitting the floor. When the light came back on, Jim’s fingers twitched helplessly on the carpet, a patch of dampness already seeping into the fur.

There was about ten seconds of absolute stillness. As if they’d all struck a pose in a fit of drunken impulse. It was the same vague realization that something was going on, but nothing made any sense.

Bill moved first, approaching the prone form. Kneeling down, he put a hand to Jim’s face, thumb skimming over one cheek. The gentleness of his gesture all the more jarring amidst the sharp tang of blood.

Jim tried to speak. But all he could manage were little puffs of breaths, wet and choking. Both of their faces shadowed, nothing but fuzzy outlines in the dim lighting.

Bill dropped a kiss to Jim’s forehead, then proceeded to place the muzzle of his pistol at the same spot.

His hand was perfectly steady when he squeezed the trigger.

 

 

By some unspoken agreement, no one uttered the name Black Mamba in front of Bill ever again, or Jim Prideaux.

 

 

Peter lands a foot in Jim’s stomach, savouring the grunt that gets knocked out of the other man. Just as he’s pulling back, hands clamp down on his ankle, wrenching his leg to the side. They both lose their balance and crush to the ground in a tangled heap. Jim dives in, straddling Peter’s waist. As he brings the blade down, Peter’s arm shoots up, halting it mid-air.

Their eyes lock, foreheads beaded with sweat, both trying to push past the other’s defence. Peter bucks up, doesn’t quite manage to knee his opponent in the groin but dislodging him successfully. He jumps to his feet, kicks out again; this time managing to connect with Jim’s jaw, who rolls with the momentum and dodges the blow that follows. Spitting blood as he pulls himself up.

Peter presses a hand to his side, not surprised when it comes away damp. Jim isn’t looking much better for wear either: he’s noticeably favouring his left leg, on top of the concussion he must be feeling now, thanks to Peter’s spin kick earlier.

A metallic gleam comes flying at his face. Ducking just in time, Peter takes a swipe that catches Jim in the chest. Jim hisses in pain and stumbles back, then launches at him again with a vicious stab. Peter blocks it, trapping Jim’s blade with his own and steps under his arm. Bringing his elbow up, Peter jabs it into the back of Jim’s injured shoulder, satisfied when the thump brings a pained yelp. Peter lets go of the arm and twists away, but not before Jim lunges, using his greater size to topple them both over.

Peter falls to his side, a stone step digging right into the open wound. His vision swims for a second, enough for Jim to flip the knife and thrusts in. The curved edge slides effortlessly through flesh and bone until it hits the ground underneath.

For one brief moment, Peter observes the blade protruding from his arm with a sort of detached interest. The pain is almost secondary to the fascination that he’s pinned like a prized butterfly.

Jim swiftly prises Peter’s weapon out of his numb fingers, and presses it to the pulse point at his throat. Peter can feel where the tip nips the skin, a warning: any attempt to free himself will earn him a nice long gash to the carotid.

‘I don’t want to do this, Cottonmouth.’

‘Sure you do,’ Peter wheezes. ‘You’ve waited four years for this.’

‘I’ll find Bill, one way or another. Your loyalty---’ Jim tears into the underbelly of those words, gnawing on every syllable, ‘---your sacrifice, is pointless.’

‘I’m a lot of things.’ Peter swallows against the pressure on his windpipe, eyes wide open. ‘But a traitor I’m not.’

Jim waits a beat. ‘Fine, have it your way.’

He’s about to let the blade slide home when someone crashes through the gates, panting.

‘No! Wait!’

Neither of them looks up, all too aware that even the tiniest distraction will cost them dearly. Peter snaps, ‘Shut up, Ricki!’

‘London…’ more sounds of tripping and tumbling, something slams into a wall.

‘Go on.’

‘He’s in London… That’s all I know.’

Jim looks down at the face of Peter Guillam, eyes tight with tension. In one fluid move, he snatches up Peter’s other arm, adding a twist and bend. Peter bites back a scream as the joint dislocates. Distantly he hears Ricki’s howl of outrage, as if it’s coming from underwater.

‘It’s the truth, I swear! Don’t you…don’t fucking touch him!’

‘I believe you.’ Jim stands, sparing the blond a glance (barely upright, Jim’s shiv still sprouting from his ribcage). He steps away, never turning his back on them. ‘I just don’t trust Cottonmouth, disarmed or not.’

 With that he’s gone, melting into the shadows. Peter strains to track the retreating footsteps, until all he can hear is the rustling of leaves. He sucks in a careful breath.

‘I’m going to feed your damn tongue to my new pet.’

He only gets a faint chuckle in response.

Peter twists around enough to peer back: pink froth bubbles at the corner of Ricki’s mouth, which, Christ, isn’t a comforting sign.

He doesn’t waste any time to mourn for his pride, just shouts for help as loud as he can. 

 

 

It’s not easy to pinpoint someone in London.

Even less so when the person in question has made invisibility their profession.

But then, he **knows** Bill.          

Nobody can maintain a lie for long without revealing pieces of himself.

Lately Jim has begun to let himself think, in the dark hours when phantom pain would seize his body and shake it to a trembling mess, that maybe Bill has deceived him from the very start. Maybe it was all make-belief on Jim’s behalf.

That train of thought never continues for long. What good does it do? Except making him an even bigger fool than Control.

Control, who founded the Squad and made Bill his right hand man, in name at least---that old fox was far too clever to risk diluting his own power. Back then, every case needed Control’s say-so, no bullet was fired without a nod from the C-man.

Control was defined by his paranoia, and suitably killed by it.

Because Bill didn’t want to be just a glorified messenger boy, forever running Control’s errands.

The days when Jim alone saw the frustration and anger boiling inside Bill. Bill the Bohemian, always had a joke and a smile on hand.

I’m worth more than this, he’d say. Curled around Jim’s body, his voice deceptively calm. More than an early grave or dismissal.

And Jim wanted to give him more; give him something other than the cold fire in his eyes.

 

 

He gets his first glimpse of Bill, after four years, in a hippy bar tucked away in Shoreditch. There is some comfort in the fact that he can still predict Bill’s taste, at least.

Bill is chatting up a redhead: tall, built, a generous mouth. He’s playing the role of an attentive listener, eyes crinkling with a half-smile. The kind of smile that promises so much more than what it is---an arrangement of facial muscles.

He always did like them young and just a tad naive.

Jim doesn’t let himself watch for more than a few seconds. Sensing a tail is second nature to them. He’s come too far to scare off his target now.

That’s what he tells himself, In any case.

The redhead leans in, whispering into Bill’s ear. Bill pulls back, considering. Then, to Jim’s puzzlement, he shakes his head, an apologetic twist to his mouth. The redhead shrugs, drains his glass and walks off.

Jim is on the move before the highball hits the bar.

His hands are trembling slightly. So he stuffs them into his pockets, grasping the knife there. There is no need really; he knows more ways to kill a man with his bare hands than the number of cocktails on the menu.

‘Fancy seeing you here.’

Bill looks over; the pleasantly vacant expression on his face doesn’t waver.

‘Ah, you made it. I was beginning to wonder.’

‘Hasn’t been an easy trip.’ Jim nods. He’ll get a cramp in his back soon with the way he’s tensing up.

‘Shall we move this conversation elsewhere?’ Bill waves a hand at the surrounding. ‘This music is starting to give me a headache.’

 

 

‘Can I offer you anything?’ Bill says, shedding his jacket.

Jim gives him a look. Bill grins. ‘Relax, I said we’d talk. Anything else can come after.’

‘Because you’ve always been a man of your words.’

Bill pours himself a scotch. Jim notes how he only partially turns away, never fully exposing his back.

‘I’ve never lied. I may have, on occasion, omitted the truth. But I never lied.’

Jim laughs hollowly. ‘Sure. That made a whole lot of difference.’

‘Come, sit.’ Bill moves towards the couch. ‘It’s going to be a long night. And you’re hurting, I can tell.’

They settle themselves down on either side of the coffee table. Bill sprawled out like a spoiled cat; Jim perches, upright.

‘So, why?’

Bill is silent for long moments before he lifts his head from the back of the couch. ‘Karla.’

It takes Jim some time to put a face to that name. He narrows his eyes. ‘What’s he got to do with anything?’

‘You remember, about 3 months before.’ Bill takes a sip, gesturing with the tumbler. Neither of them needs clarifying what ‘before’ specifies. ‘Our men were dropping like flies. Almost cost me the whole business.’

Jim does remember. Dark days, they were. One by one Bill’s employee vanished on him. Night after night when Bill barely slept, his face gaunt with worry. Jim had to drag him into their bed, pins Bill down with his own body. Only then could Bill drop off into oblivion for a few hours.

‘It was Karla. Apparently that one-off payment wasn’t enough. He wanted shares in all our future profits.’

Jim waits for him to continue. Although an idea is already taking shape, bubbling hot and cold in his veins.

‘I was getting…anxious shall we say.’ Bill purses his lips. ‘I thought to myself, he must have an inside man. Someone was feeding him the whereabouts of my subordinates.’

‘And you thought I was the mole.’ Jim resists the urge to get up and start pacing, curling his hands into fists to keep himself still. ‘Out of all people, you thought it was me.’

‘It was the most logical conclusion. As far as I knew, we were the only two people who were acquainted with Karla. Well, apart from Control. But he didn’t have to live with that knowledge for long.’

‘You thought I sold you out. Jim fights to keep his breathing even. ‘For what?’

‘I said it was the most logical conclusion, not the most reasonable.’

‘Was shooting me dead the most logical next step?’

Bill sets the glass down, one hand reaching up to rub his temple. ‘No, I overreacted.’

They fall silent, both lost in thoughts. Until Jim finally chuckles.

‘You never believed it, did you?’ The words should taste bitter, there was a time when the very notion would twist his insides into knots. Now they are weightless, floating off his tongue. ‘That I loved you.’

‘I did.’ Bill meets his gaze, eyes mild. ‘I do. But love and betrayal isn’t mutually exclusive.’

‘And you can’t teach a man faith.’ Jim’s hand shoots out, just as Bill grabs for the gun tucked in between the cushions. The pistol goes flying, skidding along the marble floor.

Jim makes a tutting noise, shaking his head. ‘But you can unteach him, though.’

Bill holds up his bleeding wrist, presses a handkerchief to the wound. Jim throws the dagger away with a sign, and draws a revolver out of his jacket. He flicks the chambers open, displaying the single bullet inside.

‘One shot, whatever the result, we’ll call it even.’

Bill searches his face for any sign of mockery. Apparently finding none, he sits up a little, smoothing a hand over his hair. There are flecks of grey creeping up his temples now.

‘Well then. Let’s get this over with.’

He levels the barrel at Bill’s forehead, inhales.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr me folks](http://rosengris.tumblr.com/)


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